The house crumbles when love fades away.
“I hate him! He’s not my father. Let him leave—we’ll manage without him,” Lily seethed, her anger sharp as glass. I couldn’t fathom the feud tearing her family apart. Why not live in peace? Little did I know the storms raging beneath that roof.
Lily had a half-sister, Edie, their mother and stepfather’s shared child. From where I stood, the stepfather treated both girls the same. But appearances deceive. Lily never hurried home after school. She’d calculate when her nemesis—the loathed stepfather—would leave for work. If, God forbid, he was still home, Lily’s temper would boil over.
In hushed tones, she’d plead: “He’s still here, Vicky. Stay in my room, will you?” Then she’d lock herself in the bathroom, a prisoner of spite, until his footsteps faded. The moment the door clicked shut, she’d emerge, breathing freely. “Finally! You’re lucky, Vicky—living with your real dad. I’m stuck in this mess.” She sighed heavily. “Come on, let’s eat.”
Lily’s mother ran a tight ship. Meals were sacred—breakfast, lunch, tea, supper, all timed, measured, vitamin-packed. No matter when I visited, a warm meal waited, pots draped with tea towels, expectant.
Lily despised Edie, ten years her junior. She’d mock, pinch, snap—petty cruelties that, years later, would melt into an unbreakable bond. Lily would marry, have a daughter. Later, the whole family—save the stepfather—would move to Australia. In time, Lily would bear a second girl. Edie, unwed, would dote on her nieces, knitting their fractured clan tighter in a foreign land. Lily’s real father, remarried, would write until his dying day. She was his only child.
I grew up with both parents, yet all my friends came from broken homes. Back then, I didn’t grasp their bitterness. But life hadn’t been kind to them.
Sarah’s parents were hopeless drunks. She never invited anyone over, ashamed of their rages—her stepfather’s curses, her mother’s drunken slaps. But at fifteen, Sarah learned to hit back, and they left her be.
“Vicky, come to my birthday!” Sarah grinned, newfound confidence gleaming.
“Your house? Really? Won’t your stepfather—?”
“Let him try,” she scoffed. “Mum gave me my real dad’s address. He’s my safety net now. Come. She’s actually cooking.”
The big day arrived. I brought a gift, hesitating at her door. Sarah stood there, radiant. “Welcome! Sit, eat.”
Her parents lurked by the table. I murmured a greeting; they nodded stiffly. The battered oilcloth barely hid its stains. On it: a bowl of stew, sliced bread, lemonade in chipped tumblers, flaky pastries crumbling like dry sand. Sarah beamed, proud of this “feast.”
God, what did they eat on ordinary days? My own birthday flashed to mind—Mum toiling all day, tables groaning under roast beef, trifles, jam tarts. Different homes, different worlds.
I choked down the meal, avoiding the pastry’s avalanche of crumbs. Sarah’s parents stood sentinel, unspeaking. In the corner, her gran wheezed on a sagging bed: “Don’t drink, Susan, or you’ll forget my dinner!”
Sarah flushed. “Gran, it’s just lemonade.”
The old woman turned to the wall, muttering.
“Thanks for the lovely spread,” I lied, bolting upright. We fled—youth has better things to do than nurse the past.
Within a year, Sarah lost her parents, then her gran. By twenty-five, she was alone. Suitors came—including my ex-husband—but none stayed. Maybe it was her, maybe them. Fate’s funny that way.
Then there was Tanya, fourteen, living with her sister Annie, eighteen—a goddess of poise and stern glances. Their mother visited weekly, arms laden with groceries, guilt heavy in her steps. She’d left Annie’s father, borne Tanya by another man, then scurried back to husband number one. I envied Tanya’s freedom. No rules, no watchful eyes.
Tanya married young, had a daughter. Then her husband vanished—prison, they said. She drowned in drink. Annie found her cold, at forty-two.
Lastly, Nicky—new in Year Ten, all curves and honeyed voice. Boys pined; she barely noticed. Her heart belonged to Charlie, who’d whisk her away in his Ford Fiesta after school.
Nicky’s dad died when she was nine. She flunked exams but sang like an angel. She and Charlie formed a band, ruled school dances. When he left for the army, she wept at the station—then promptly fell pregnant by some phantom man. Charlie forgave her upon return, offered a future. She refused. “You’ll throw the boy in my face forever. I’d rather be alone.”
Years later, her son grown, she’d marry a farmer, vanish into the countryside.
These girls orbited my world, yet despised each other. Now, only Lily remains in my life, oceans between us, writing of vows to shield her girls from her own scars: “If there’s fighting, let it be with flesh and blood. A stepfather’s wound never heals.”
Sometimes, we laugh over old schoolyard scrapes.
Sarah and Nicky? Ghosts now, lost to the wind.
